To Tuscany with Love (36 page)

Meghan’s eyes grew dark. She spit her words in his face. “I feel awful that you have cancer. You’re my friend. But I’m not going to have sex with you. And for the record, my sex life is none of your damn business.”

This doesn’t look promising, Rune thought.

Before he could say another word, Meghan disappeared inside the room. He stood facing the closed door. First Stillman, and now Meghan, had slammed a door in his face. Worst damn day of his miserable life.

42

L
ee ventured into Florence alone. He’d risen earlier than the others, who had slept in after their dinner on San Jacopo. He grabbed espresso at a stand-up bar near the University; his face crinkled at the bitterness. He had done the research yesterday and into the night, but uncertainty plagued him.

His mission today was the key to his escape. Today, he’d begin his new life. He chastised himself for his doubt and strode with purpose out of the bar and into the morning shadows of the street.

Only a few people walked the city center streets, still wet from a nighttime rain. As he passed a bakery already open to customers, the smell of breads, rolls, and sweet pastries tugged at Lee. Next door, an older, balding man stooped beside a roll-up metal garage door. He unlocked it and then lifted it to uncover the wood and glass façade of a butcher shop.

Lee ducked down cool, shaded side streets, left and then right, until he reached his destination. He ran up the steps and into the building marked by a modest sign. Inside, the light and airiness struck him first. Lee found only one person in the studio, a warehouse-like room with support posts in lieu of interior walls. A bent-over man swept the cement floor between the statues with a straw broom. He looked all of eighty. Lee called out a hearty greeting.

The man ignored him. Screw it. He’d look around. Ten-foot windows extended down from the ceiling on two sides of the room, which allowed natural light to flood the space. Clay models and half-finished reliefs crammed the room’s outer edges, with bare floor and unoccupied easels in the center. A huge metal trough extended from one wall. Lee’s hand rubbed the inner surface to capture the feel of the clay traces remaining. A water faucet hung out of the wall above it.

Lee ignored the janitor and positioned himself in front of an empty pillar stand in the room’s creative center. He imagined himself working here. He lifted his hands to cup a pretend statue in process. His fingers moved—shaping, molding, and bringing life to his art.

This was his future. The certainty of it burned inside him as hot as the habanero chili peppers he’d once eaten on a dare from his son. The energy of the light-filled studio lifted him. He closed his eyes and let his hands continue their molding of the imaginary clay.

A low, scratchy cough to his right brought Lee back to reality. His hands dropped to his sides. He felt the color rise on his cheeks. The elderly man stood beside him, his broom no longer in his hands. Lee could not understand the Italian words shot at him, but he could tell that he wasn’t expected. Or welcome.

“Student,” Lee said. He tapped his chest.

The man flung his arm in the direction of the door. His intent was as clear as if he’d picked Lee up by his shirt collar and thrown him out of the studio.

Lee tried again to introduce himself as a student. The elderly man again threw his arm with obvious disgust in the direction of the door, accompanying the gesture with a string of Italian that spewed out too fast for Lee to understand. But he didn’t need to interpret the words; the meaning was clear enough.

Lee slunk to the door. All those calls and e-mails he’d sent from the States—only to be thrown out by the janitor? His faxes were never answered, true, but this studio had the reputation of training the best new sculptors in Italy. It would be worth coming back, to meet the maestro in person. Then Lee would have a chance to convince him that he was a worthy student.

Since dropping in uninvited hadn’t worked, he’d talk to Giacomo; maybe he knew someone. After all, this was Italy. There was always a way to get something done, right?

He turned to soak in one more glimpse of the studio—its light and energy and creative excitement. What he saw surprised him.

The elderly man stood erect in front of an easel on which a canvas had appeared. Bold charcoal strokes of a woman’s reclining body already graced the canvas. The artist moved quickly, his arms sweeping through the air with the fluid grace of a dancer. All vestiges of age disappeared as his work, his passion, consumed him. Was this the maestro himself? If so, Lee knew he’d crashed and burned on his first impression. He lowered his head and pulled the door closed behind him.

After downing two more espressos and sitting by the Duomo for over an hour, Lee walked to meet the others in the Piazza della Signoria.

The open square had already filled with tour groups clustered around their guides, their patterned umbrellas stuck straight over their heads as if they were lightning rods. The middle-aged tourists bobbed their collective heads as they listened to their guides describe the
Museo di Palazzo Vecchio
that stood behind them, the statues that bordered the large piazza, and the history surrounding this Florence landmark.

Lee saw Meghan first. She sat on the steps underneath Cellini’s bronze
Perseus
, in which the mighty Perseus holds the severed head of Medusa.

Giacomo sat beside her, his arm brushing hers. Giacomo’s mouth moved in rapid explanation; his hands flew in wild gestures.

Meghan’s head tilted back in laughter.

A pang from nowhere hit Lee in his sternum. But he couldn’t let jealousy derail him. If he wanted Giacomo’s help, he’d have to ask for it. He moved to join them.

Meghan curled forward in fits of laughter. “Stop,” she said. “Just stop.” She swiped at her eyes with her fingers. She winked at Giacomo. “You are wicked and perverted. You know that.”

The handsome Italian bowed to her. “It is necessary, you see, to sometimes be most wicked to bring laughter to a pretty lady.”

Lee raised an eyebrow at Meghan. “Is that the secret to unlocking Meghan?”

Her face flushed hot pink.

Lee smiled at their guide. “Giacomo, I could use some laughter this morning. Care to share your story with me, too?”

Giacomo rubbed Meghan’s arm. “My apology. The moment has passed. It is time to join our group.” He motioned at the others, who sat clustered across the piazza at outdoor tables, nursing espressos.

Lee knew he had only a few minutes to make his appeal. He blurted out his story of searching for the studio, his hope of finding information about classes, and his run-in with the elderly artist. He hadn’t even told Merry, his wife, his vision of sculpting in Italy. Yet, to Giacomo and Meghan, his whole dream rushed out.

“You are lucky to meet the maestro.” Giacomo beamed. “He is very famous in Italy and Europe.”

Lee shook his head. “So that was the maestro. It was a disaster. He threw me out of the studio. I’m going to need connections, Giacomo. I’ll pay whatever it costs. Can you help?”

Giacomo nodded. “But of course.” His face solemn, he stood and patted Lee’s shoulder. “Do not worry. His work always comes first. Perhaps I can arrange for you to speak to his son, who manages the financial part of his business.”

“Does his son speak English?”

“Yes, of course.” Giacomo reached down and pulled Meghan to her feet. “I will tell you a story about the maestro. One day I went to visit him. A friend of mine had helped the maestro secure a commission. I go to see the maestro
to take pictures of his work for my friend. He was late for our meeting, which was unheard of for this man. When he arrived, he excused himself, saying he was very upset. His brother had died that morning. He wouldn’t accept my condolences, or questions after his brother, as he was late starting work. ‘There’s always the work, you see,’ he told me. His brother dead less than an hour, and the maestro was already back to work.”

“In Italy,” Giacomo said, grinning at Meghan, “only artists and tour guides work with such dedication. Yes, I will help you.”

Lee clapped Giacomo on the shoulder. “Thank you. You don’t know what this means to me.”

“It is my pleasure.” Giacomo grinned and then folded Meghan’s small hand into the bend of his arm, leading her toward where the rest of the group sat.

Relief washed over Lee.

Instead of rounding up the group, though, Giacomo and Meghan disappeared inside the espresso bar. Lee followed them to the counter, where he heard Giacomo order an espresso and a cappuccino. Moments later, the clerk behind the counter offered the latter to Meghan. Surprised that she would indulge, Lee watched her cautiously taste it; the golden froth stuck to her upper lip until she licked it off with her tongue.

Giacomo had obviously gotten her to abandon the strict vegan approach. And Lee knew how it had happened. It’d take a blind man to miss the chemistry between the two of them. He wasn’t sure what he felt about Meghan, but he hated imagining her with anyone else.

Lee ducked outside to the street. He breathed in the cool, humid air. Thoughts of his wife slammed into his temples. He decided he’d call Merry—now. He stared at his watch and realized it was the middle of the night in Durham. Not the time to phone. Maybe later, he told himself, he’d call. But he knew he wouldn’t. He’d find an excuse. The truth was that he didn’t know what he’d say to her. I want to stay in Italy without you? No. That confession was not ready for prime time yet.

After he and Meghan had finished their drinks, Giacomo led the group to the Palazzo Vecchio. He promised a special tour. Lee noticed how Giacomo positioned himself next to Meghan, so close that their shoulders and arms brushed against each other.

An hour into the tour, Giacomo introduced them to a gem. It was Lee’s favorite discovery on the tour, a room that had belonged to Francesco I.

The small chamber bore the curved ceiling of a treasure chest and was built for that exact purpose. Behind the artwork hinged to the wall were narrow shelves that had held the duke’s treasures—jewels, gold, alchemy potions, and ingredients. Francesco I, it seems, had studied the science of alchemy. The artwork gave clues as to the treasures previously held behind each painting. Lee found himself studying the paintings and guessing at the ancient secrets they had contained.

Prying the group from this mysterious room, Giacomo led them up a hidden stairway to another secret room. Lee and Meghan brought up the rear.

“Do you ever wonder?” Lee blurted out the words. Damn it, she’ll think I’m crazy, asking a question that seems to make no sense, he thought.

Meghan seemed to know exactly what he had asked. “What would have happened if we’d stayed together?”

Lee nodded.

“Yes.” Her eyes told him nothing. She turned back to study the painting beside her.

“Come. This way.” Giacomo’s head appeared out of a stairwell. His hand waved them to follow. “You are missing this most unusual hiding spot.”

Meghan’s eyes hovered on Lee’s face for a long, silent moment. Then, without another word, she turned and followed Giacomo up the stairwell.

“Me, too,” Lee whispered at her retreating back.

Lee couldn’t quell his guilty feeling about Merry. He took the easy way out. During the afternoon break, he found an Internet store not far from their mansion.

Hi Merry.

It’s good to see everyone again. They’ve all gotten old (as if I haven’t).

Have there been any more issues with Max’s Spanish teacher?

I’m thinking of planning another trip to Florence to check into the potential for a visiting professorship at the University.

I know I haven’t mentioned this to you before, but I corresponded by e-mail with the University Department Chair before this visit. If nothing else, a little time here would do wonders for my Italian language skills.

His fingers pounded against the keyboard with his lies.

Maybe I should extend my visit now to see if I could work out details in person.

Lee